


Shaking Hands With the Dark Parts of My Thoughts

by dushku



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Hurt Emerson Kent, Insecure Emerson Kent, M/M, Protective Joseph Chandler, Relationship Reveal, basically what happened in the episode, s3 e4 rewrite, that's about it, trigger warning for drugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26034604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dushku/pseuds/dushku
Summary: ‘‘m sorry ‘m not her.’ Chandler made out, brow crinkled in confusion. ‘Know you like her. Maybe you pre—prefer her. Could better your career. Jus’—jus’ wanted you to know… I love you.’ He paused. ‘‘m sorry.’The Detective Inspector felt his heart split in two at Kent’s confession. Evidently, Kent was still insecure, vulnerable in what Chandler had thought was a working relationship. Was it really what Kent thought? He still doubted them, after everything?Did you give him a reason not to?s3 e4 re-write
Relationships: Joseph Chandler/Emerson Kent
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46





	Shaking Hands With the Dark Parts of My Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> if you read the version before this one, no you didn't❤️ 
> 
> title from "doubt" by twenty-one pilots. i rewrote this during a nine hour drive so i apologise for mistakes, though if there are any they should only be minor (i hope)
> 
> i love writing this pairing and hope to upload more in the future!! thank you for reading x

‘And get a squad car to take Miles home! I think he’s done for the night.’ Were Chandler’s parting words as he disappeared off with D.I. Norroy. _Again_.

Kent tried his best to not appear crestfallen as he returned his jacket to the back of his chair, forlorn gaze directed towards the files and computer screen that had been darkened in excitement, ready to follow the older man. With a sigh, Kent’s fingers flew deftly across a black keypad and within minutes Kent had secured the exhausted sergeant a ride home. He then moved across the incident room and into Chandler’s office to where said sergeant was collapsed in a chair, chin in hand as his arm rested against the arm of the chair; intermittent snores escaping the drooped mouth.

‘Sarge?’ Kent tried. ‘Miles?’ He jostled the man’s shoulder harshly, bent over to call into his ear. ‘Skip!’

The D.S. shot awake quickly, so much so that Kent had to pull back sharply as to not be head-butted in the nose. ‘Oh, it’s you, lad.’ Miles sniffed, not contemptuously. ‘Where’s ‘is Nibbs, then? Thought you would have followed him out.’

‘He’s um… he’s gone off with, uh, D.I. Norroy,’ Kent said quietly. He had glanced away, face slightly aflame. He did not see the way Miles’ face darkened, like he knew something and Kent’s dismissive comment about the two Detective Inspectors angered him. Eventually, the D.C. relayed to Miles what he had originally woken him up for.

‘Sir had me call you a squad car, to take you home,’ said Kent. ‘It should be ready outside in a few minutes.’

Miles grunted and began to lift himself from the seat, the fabric creaking underneath the sudden movement after hours of motionless weight. Kent shuffled from foot to foot as he mulled over whether or not he should ask the Detective Sergeant the question that had lingered at the back of his mind since the beginnings of the case.

‘Uh, Skip?’ He was tentative, which Miles was quick to notice. ‘Could I ask you something?’

‘You just did.’ Miles shot back, eliciting the laugh – albeit short and hesitant – he looked for. ‘Go ahead, kid.’

‘Not a kid,’ Kent grumbled before shaking his head. ‘Well, it’s about Chandler, you see—’

‘I am warning you now, Kent, that if this conversation even enters the bedroom, I am walking home.’

‘Eugh, Skip, what—No! Why would you say that?’ Kent blurted out, the grimace evident on his face as he wrinkled his nose in discomfort. Miles bit back a laugh at the dawning realisation of what he had said replaced the awkward gracing Kent’s features. ‘Skip?’ He stuttered. ‘How long have you known?’

‘Since it began.’ Miles shrugged nonchalantly before he looked slightly offended at Kent’s incredulous expression. ‘I’ve been a copper for over thirty years, lad. I’ve seen many office romances bloom—I know all the signs.’ Kent looked terrified. ‘No, I have told the other jackals; I know Mansell wouldn’t be able to shut up about it. Tell them when you’re ready, but try to aim before Christmas—I’ve got bets to win.’

Kent snorted, relieved by Miles’ indifference to the situation, but the terrifying question that gnawed at his mind wouldn’t shut up.

‘I just… Do you think he likes her?’ Kent’s voice was small and full of insecurity. ‘D.I. Norroy? I mean, we’ve only been together a few months, and I thought it was going good, but…’ He shrugged, not wanting to voice everything.

‘I think he likes her as much as he likes any other hard-working detective that comes his way,’ Miles said pointedly, ‘though you stretch beyond that lad, don’t you worry. The man is enamoured with you.’ Rubbing a hand over his face, Miles sighed. ‘If you want my honest opinion, he has seemed happier recently.’ The Detective Sergeant missed the anguish that flashed across the young Detective Constable’s face—the thought of Chandler finding a similar ranked officer who wouldn’t jeopardise his career if the older man sought to move on to bigger and better things (and Kent secretly and selfishly hoped that Chandler would never want to leave the team situated in Whitechapel, but they had never taken the time to actively discuss their future together) was something that had weighed down on Kent more pressingly the moment the blonde-haired Detective Inspector had joined the investigation.

Through his glare, Kent shook his head and changed the nature of the conversation. ‘It doesn’t matter. He’s got me to call you some officers to take you home. Should be ready outside in a few minutes.’ Miles, not oblivious to the obvious change in subject, grunted his affirmation and led the two of them from the small office out into the cold air of Whitechapel’s night.

»» ««

He did not know how long her had been sat on Jo’s couch for, mindlessly flicking through the TV channels when the open book on his lap could not hold his attention for more than a few minutes. The clock ticked ominously over the quiet litany of Mock the Week, and Emerson cursed under his breath as his eyes betrayed him once more as they strayed to the hands that showed it was twenty-two minutes past one in the morning.

Jo still hadn’t returned home.

That in itself wasn’t surprising, as on more than one occasion when Emerson had visited the older man’s residence, letting himself in with the spare key that Jo had pressed in his hand one silent night, the D.I. was in his office at the station, pouring himself over case files and witness statements as the burden of the unsolved case became too much. There had been times when Emerson had then gone to the incident room to accompany Jo, but the older man most of the time sent him home with a kiss on the forehead and the pleads that the D.C. get a decent night’s sleep. So, no, Jo being out of his apartment at 1 a.m. was not what made Emerson uneasy, but rather the fact that the last time Emerson had heard from Jo was when he had left Whitechapel’s police station with Norroy.

Emerson had tried calling, but two calls later and any more would have made him look clingy. He had pondered sending off a text, but Emerson knew that it would only garner the same results as the calls. Tapping his phone against his thigh, Emerson did his best not to worry. Jo was fine, he told himself, he was out with D.I. Norroy—

He was out with D.I. Norroy. It was the early hours of the morning and Jo was still out with Mina Norroy.

The thought hit Emerson like a freight train and the worst-case scenario whizzed through Emerson’s head before he could talk himself down rationally. Jo wouldn’t… _cheat_ on Emerson, he knew that, but the niggling fear that Jo had found someone better, someone more like him gnawed away at the young man’s back thoughts.

Jo had asked Emerson out for a drink a little more than a month prior to the start of the current case; it was awkward, to say the least, with Emerson’s heart pounding throughout the evening as he did his best not to faint over the fact that Jo was sat across from him in a pub that wasn’t their usual, a pub that was quaint and quiet and private. The D.I. had spent fifteen minutes of the evening adjusting the booth’s coasters, the way the bottle and mat lined themselves on the dark wooden surface while Emerson watched over the rim of his glass. Once those fifteen minutes had passed, Jo had finally met Emerson’s eyes and the D.C. could see the emotions swirling in the sapphire blue—something soft, something hesitant, and affection. Emerson’s heart had stuttered at the sight. It had been that night that Jo confessed his attraction to the D.C., stumbling through it in a very Jo-like manner.

‘I—I don’t wish to… _pressure_ you into anything, Ke—Emerson,’ Jo had said. ‘I understand that, as your boss, you might not want—I would like to give this a go, if you’ll have me.’ Uncertainty radiated from the man’s posture and the wounded-puppy look that graced his face broke Emerson’s heart in such a way that the man felt the only response was to down the rest of his drink and rise from his seat just enough to lean across the space, grab the Inspector’s tie just below its knot, and pull him forward just enough to connect their lips in a chaste way. It was short, sweet, and conveyed everything. When they had pulled away, flush-faced and the brightest smiles, Emerson slowly lowered himself back down and had said:

‘I’ve wanted you since you came to Whitechapel.’

And the rest, as they say, was history: the two had a routine, they worked, they were happy, the happiest either of them had been in a long time, but neither of the two men had worked up the courage to utter those three little words out loud, the ones they knew they had felt long before their feelings had been placed down on the table that night—and that was a major factor in Emerson’s irrational worry over Jo’s late arrival. Sure, he had said it constantly in his head (and maybe once or twice back when the Ripper was still on the loose in a Freudian slip), but every time Emerson went to say them, he felt the moment was not right, and the three words would clog in his chest and sit there heavily. Emerson wondered if he were selfish for wanting Jo to say it first: after waiting so long to be with the older man, Emerson longed for him to be the one to say it first, to sooth the young D.C.’s insecurities, prove that Jo did truly want to be with him. That he felt the same, despite Jo’s actions speaking loudly.

Eyes moved to the clock once more. _1:34_.

Cursing under his breath, Emerson turned the TV off and returned the book to its proper place on the shelf, in-between Keats and Byron, before he moved to the bathroom. After showering and clambering into a set of soft pyjamas – Emerson smiled when he noticed he had acquired the long-sleeved white t-shirt and red flannel trousers from Joe – he made to brush his teeth when the unmistakeable sound of a key in the lock, followed by the quiet click of a door and the beginnings of Jo’s nightly routine floated over the tap. The way Jo moved about tentatively led Emerson to believe that Jo thought the younger man asleep. He would have been flattered by Jo’s thoughtfulness if he hadn’t worked himself up into a state and were on the verge of tears.

With a violent twist, Emerson turned the tap off and placed his toothbrush in the pot before he moved out to the living room. Jo was stood in the middle of the space, shrugging his jacket off and placing it neatly over the back of a dining chair. A surprised look overcame his face at the younger man’s sudden appearance.

‘Em—’

‘How was it?’ Emerson asked, trying his best to sound nonchalant. Jo looked taken aback but before he could answer, Emerson spoke again. ‘I mean, you were out with her, weren’t you? Didn’t think to call me?’ Jo had the least bit of decency to look ashamed.

‘Em, I’m sorry,’ Jo spoke, quiet, ‘but the case was just getting to me, and Mina suggested—’

‘Oh, it’s _Mina_ now, is it?’

Jo glared at Emerson’s insinuation.

‘ _Mina_ suggested that we go take our minds off the case, and so we went outside, talked, and then we ended up at the pub—’ Emerson felt his eyes prickle. ‘—and we just talked, Em. If I had known… I would have called you.’

‘I’m sure you would have.’ Emerson muttered, and Jo looked hurt.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He asked, incredulous. Gesturing to the older man’s pocket, JO slowly pulled the device out of its depths and clicked the _on_ button, “2 missed calls – Em” taking residence on the lock screen.

‘I—I didn’t hear it. I’m sorry.’

‘So, what did you and Mina get talking about?’

'Not a lot...’ Jo felt something click in his mind, and he fully turned his body to face the young man. ‘Is this—Is this you being _jealous?_ ’ Jo asked incredulously, a look of amusement gracing his features.

‘I am not—’ The end of Emerson's sentence was cut off as Jo crossed the space in four quick strides and pulled the curly-haired man forward so his cheek rested on Jo’s chest. Fingers worked their way into the curls at Emerson’s nape while Jo’s other hand wound around the slim waist. Letting out a sigh, Emerson slowly turned his face into Jo’s chest and wrapped his arms around the man's middle. ‘I was worried. You weren’t answering, and I know how you sometimes get on cases, so I was ready to head back to the station because I want to be there for you, Jo, _I want you to feel like you can come and talk to me_ , but then I remembered you were out with D.I. Norroy, and—’

'Shh,' Jo assuaged. ‘I’m sorry I distressed you, Em, but I really just lost track of everything. You know how I can get.’

'I know,' Emerson whispered, blinking back tears. 'I...’ _love you regardless._ 'I know.’

‘I just didn’t want to burden you, and Mina just understands…’ Anything Jo said after that, Emerson did not hear.

_Mina just understands._

Moments later, Emerson pulled himself free with a sniff, avoiding Jo’s stare as he moved towards the front door and his shoes.

‘Em, wait—’

‘I think I’m going to spend the night at my flat,’ He said as he slid into his shoes.

‘Wait—’

_Mina just understands._

‘I’m just tired, Jo. I’m sure D.I. Norroy would be happy for you to call her so soon.’

‘Emerson—’

The front door’s closing _click_ was virtually silent.

_Mina just understands._

»» ««

‘We know the killer has a type he likes.’ Chandler paced in front of the collective, though his eyes betrayed him as they flickered to where Kent stood attentively, the remnants of the previous night still a heavy weight between them. ‘Five foot four to five foot seven, early to mid-twenties, dark hair.’

‘Now, the last victim may have met him in a club called “The Hooded Crow”,’ D.I. Norroy joined in, moving from where she had been leant against a desk to stand next to Chandler. Her arms remained crossed in front of her chest; an indisputable air of authority surrounded her. She then turned to the boards and regarded them with a contemplative examination. ‘The killer could have approached others who fit this profile.’

‘If so, they may remember him.’ It was emphasised with a fixed stare.

‘You think a bunch of sweaty adults are going to want to talk to the police when they’re probably utterly wasted or up to their eyeballs on some form of drugs?’ Miles poked at the female D.I.’s plan when he realised where she was going with it.

Norroy made to argue back, but Riley gestured at Miles with the tip of her ballpoint pen. ‘Skip has got a point, Boss. If anyone at this club gets a whiff of coppers, any potential witness avenues – or even suspects – could be shut on us.’

‘I could go.’ Kent spoke up. ‘I’ve… uh, I’ve been to a few of these clubs during my uni days… Besides, our killer’s only focused on women, so if he’s there, I’m not going to stand out as a target, but I could fit right in.’

‘He’s only focused on women _that we know of_.’ Mansell raised an eyebrow and ignored Kent’s grimace. ‘If our boy swings both ways, you fit the description, mate. Though you could draw him out for us.’

‘Absolutely not.’ The words were out of Chandler’s mouth before Mansell’s had finished.

‘Are you implying I’m incapable of performing my job, _sir_?’ The silence that had descended on the incident room was stifling, which was why Mansell’s quiet ‘oooh’ under his breath didn’t go unnoticed by anyone. Riley swatted his leg with a file that was in her reach.

‘No, of course not, I just… It would be better—safer if there was back up.’ Chandler settled on finally. The twitch of his brow and glint in his eye would have showed Kent that he was worried, that the moment Dr Llewellyn had listed the features of the three victims Chandler’s brain had supplied him with Kent’s lifeless form splayed out in some dark room, followed by the gut-wrenching sound of a saw on bone and flesh, even though the rational part of his mind had tried to remind him that the killer had only targeted women, like the dark-haired D.C. said. The twitch and glint would have showed Kent this.

He wasn’t looking.

‘We can all go,’ Norroy suggested.

‘Uh, I…’ Chandler was startled by it, he hadn’t planned on going _inside_ , rather just waiting out of the club. His head was immediately filled with facts and statistics that made him want to stay far, _far_ away from any club scene but the sight of Kent with a clenched jaw and his hands tucked into his trouser suit pockets as he curled in on himself as he read into the insinuations that laced Chandler’s hesitations had Chandler's mind reflecting back to the night before where he had left Kent for Norroy – even though it wasn’t in the sense that Kent had feared it to be. Chandler bit his lip and nodded his agreement.

‘It seems the best course of action,’ He conceded. Kent’s head whipped up, a trivial smile genuine and he bobbed his head slightly. Norroy cast a smile to the D.I. stood next to her. Kent pretended he didn’t feel the swell of jealousy at the look exchanged.

_Shut up, brain!_ Emerson hissed to himself. _Everything is fine between you two. He made that clear the other night._

_Did he? Did **you**?_

Before Kent could continue his downward spiral, Riley had begun to explain the premise behind the club, throwing an off-hand comment at the young D.C. that he shouldn’t “try too hard”. He rolled his eyes and the next thing Kent knew Miles was offering to wear one of Judy’s tops. Laughter resounded but it didn’t hide the disgruntled expression that overcame Norroy’s face that had Kent’s blood boiling, followed by her moving into Chandler’s space to talk in hurried tones. Kent observed as Chandler made no motion to push Norroy away.

As he grabbed his jacket, ready to head to his Vespa, Kent watched as the older man then moved to Miles’ space, low words in hushed voices flung back and forth until Miles walked off, affronted. Kent’s focused trailed after his Detective Sergeant. No doubt Norroy had a part to play in Miles’ dismissal. Biting his tongue to prevent a fight, Kent hauled his jacket over his suit and stalked out of the incident room. He would see Chandler later at the club when he had cooled down and wasn’t on edge with Norroy’s proximity to the D.I. constantly plaguing his thoughts.

Kent jumped at the words that were murmured in his ear. It seemed that Chandler had caught up.

‘Shall we?’ The D.C. glanced at Chandler out the corners of his eyes. If only the man had left Kent to approach his Vespa in peace.

‘Nah, you’re all right,’ His voice was flat, and he shrugged lamely, lifting his keys so that they glinted in the harsh light. ‘Got my Vespa here, and my clothes are all back at my flat. See you at the club.’

‘Yeah, okay.’ Chandler said, blinking owlishly before he stopped the D.C. once more, giving his left hand a brief squeeze and flashing what he hoped to be a comforting smile. He let out an internal sigh of relief as his actions were reciprocated, and he watched the young man waltz off to the other end of the car park where the bright orange Vespa was parked.

»» ««

‘You clean up nicely, D.C. Kent,’ Chandler murmured before he could help himself, arms looping lazily around the young man’s waist. A playful smile was returned as leather-clad arms wound themselves around his neck, pulling him ever so close.

‘You don’t look so bad yourself,’ Kent teased, feeling better in himself.

He stood on his tip toes and his hands tugged on the shirt collar that sat smartly beneath the blue cashmere, and Chandler smiled as the action had his head tilting down to meet Kent’s in the briefest of kisses. The two broke apart moments later, and Chandler found himself peering down at the conflicted expression gracing Kent's face. Chandler's eyebrows furrowed and he raised a thumb to brush away the crease in Kent's own.

‘Em?’ Chandler's question went unsaid, but Kent answered it anyway.

‘I—’

‘All right!’ Mansell's boisterous shout shattered the moment and the two men pulled apart. Kent shook his head and smiled up at Chandler before the pair moved around the corner as separate entities. Riley and Mansell stood there, waiting, and Kent quickly slipped in with them while Chandler moved to talk to someone at the entrance of the Hooded Crow. They awaited the arrival of D.I. Norroy, who didn’t seem to understand the concept of punctuality, Kent noted.

_You look like a copper on an obbo._

Sanders’ words from the very first stake out for the Ripper echoed in Kent’s mind at the sight of Chandler stood nervously in the queue. He had half a mind to tell the man as such, but the words never got the chance to leave his throat when the appearance of Mina Norroy in a pink dress and one of the worst wigs Kent had ever seen (no, he wasn’t being spiteful; Kent had seen a lot in his uni days, when he had shared a dorm with a drag queen—he had been finding wigs and caps in the most random of places all year round) grabbed Jo’s attention, and had all of Kent's insecurities flooding back in seconds. He hated himself for it.

‘You look… so different.’ Chandler heard himself say in awe, not missing the way Norroy’s eyes glinted with mirth. She sent him a playful smirk, and Chandler hoped the wrinkling of his nose wasn’t noticeable; the sight of Norroy made him shift uncomfortably, and Chandler decided he preferred the grin on Emerson.

‘Yeah. I used to work in Vice,’ Norroy stated with a casual shrug of her shoulders. ‘Don’t be fooled, though. I can still snap a man’s wrist in seconds.’

Chandler responded with a nervous flash of teeth. ‘Um, after you.’

Norroy and Chandler led the group through the club’s doors, Riley, Kent, and Mansell trailing behind after the formers managed to pull the latter from flirting with two women who had walked past them. Light blue eyes immediately scanned the scene, flashing multitudes of colour lighting up the hordes of bodies gyrating to the music, the vibrations thrummed in Chandler’s chest. Sweat lay thick in the atmosphere, leaving Chandler already squirming and itching for his Tiger Balm. He swallowed anxiously; everything was too loud, too close, too dim, too grimy, and he couldn’t do anything to stop the itch he felt develop under his clothes – which, he noticed, made him stand out more than Chandler would have liked. God, he felt like a dad going to supervise his daughter at her Year Eleven prom. Not that Chandler had actually _gone_ to prom… the reminiscence of Emerson’s sheer shock that Jo had the audacity to tell him so brought a faint tug to the corner of his mouth.

The D.I. was so consumed by his thoughts that he didn’t realise he was stood still in the middle of the floor like a bump on a log until a hand on his lower back jolted him out of his conflictions. He flinched, but relaxed once he was met with Kent’s colourfully illuminated face. Chandler was tempted to reach out for it but was stopped as Kent’s hand slipped from Chandler’s back to the larger more calloused fingers that laid limp at Chandler’s side. Kent gave a brief squeeze, a reassurance, and the older man released the breath stuck in his chest with a shaky smile.

Resting his free hand on Chandler’s chest, Kent stood on his tip toes once more so that his mouth brushed against Chandler’s ear as he spoke:

‘Are you okay?’

Chandler nodded his response and Kent lowered himself, albeit reluctantly. A final squeeze was dealt to his hand, and just like that, the comforting warmth (not the stifling heat that swarmed the club. Why on earth had he picked such a ridiculous outfit to go to a _nightclub_ in?) was gone, and Chandler’s eyes were fixated on Kent’s retreating form, watching as the lithe frame moved effortlessly to the music thumping from the speakers and disappeared into the throes of dancers.

Time passed by inconsequentially. Twenty-five minutes or two hours had gone by, Chandler wasn’t sure. All that he knew was that his body ached, and his limbs felt heavy. He had situated himself where he could scan the hordes of couples and groups, picking them apart mentally and organising them to possible suspects or disregarding them entirely.

Riley and Mansell had found themselves beers and a wall to lean on, conversing nonchalantly as they aimed to fit into the crowd so that if Chandler _hadn’t_ been their boss, his gaze would have wandered over them without a second thought. The D.I. vaguely registered the fact that Mansell glared at something Riley had said before he sauntered off, taking a long swig from the brown bottle clasped tightly in his left hand.

_Three women, three women, three women…_ Chandler focused again, the repetition bringing him a form of comfort, eyes scanning over the women he hadn’t yet spoken to. He meandered through the crowd, the questions he wanted to ask swarmed his mind, a dull thud in the headache emerging. Chandler paused at the sight of Norroy in her pink dress and long brunette wig smiling and giggling as she leaned into a club-goer’s space, the alcoholic beverage loosely resting against her face as she gestured limply. The young man laughed at whatever Norroy had said, so Chandler took it as the other D.I. was more than fine, and he continued his path through the cluster.

Sat at the end of the room on a couch that was either dark green or navy blue was Kent and another man. Blond hair was meticulously styled to the left, pulled away from a long, shaped face. It was a punch to the gut when Chandler’s brain supplied him with _he’s a mirror image of you,_ and the horrid realisation that this was probably how Kent felt about Norroy, though it was quelled when Kent caught his eye the moment the man turned away, and he comforted Chandler with an imperceptible nod. Chandler moved through the archway into the other half of the club.

‘Got anything?’ Chandler was drawn by Norroy’s light voice in his ear. When had she left her companion? He resisted the urge to push her away.

‘There are three women I haven’t yet spoken to,’ Chandler replied, sparing a glance down at Norroy. He gestured to them vaguely, the three women separated around the room, two in groups while the third was getting close with a redhead woman in front of her. Norroy jutted her chin in the latter’s direction.

‘I’ll talk to h—’

‘Back off, mate.’ Mansell’s threat was followed by a loud groan as a taller man’s fist swung out and collided with the Detective Constable’s abdomen. The D.C. doubled over, and another sharp blow was dealt to his back. Mansell snarled and shoved the man in front of him, harshly, and soon enough they had begun a brawl upon the dance floor. Chandler cursed under his breath. He, Norroy, and Riley swooped in, Riley and Norroy easily and efficiently pulled the aggressor away from Mansell, while Chandler pulled his D.C. to a secluded corner of the floor.

‘Give me one good reason why I should keep you on the team,’ Chandler hissed, leaning in. With everything that had been weighing down on his mind, the stress of the operation, Mansell’s sheepish chagrin did not suppress the anger Chandler felt seething under his skin. ‘Come on!’

Mansell looked away, prepared himself, and looked Chandler in the eye. ‘Cos I’m a dickhead who can’t appreciate what he’s got until it’s gone.’

‘Is that what you said to Eva?’

‘Yeah. But you’re more forgiving than she is.’

Chandler studied Mansell moments more, eyes flicking across his embarrassed features, pondering the admission Mansell had revealed until he relented. Sometimes, he wished Mansell were wrong.

‘Last chance.’ His tone broke for no argument, and Chandler turned from his D.C. before he could feel the anger resurface. Chandler’s heart plummeted as he regarded the club under the hazy purple ambiance: Riley’s chest heaved as she kept Mansell’s attacker at arm’s length, said D.C. was still behind him, and D.I. Norroy was threatening a drunken party-er with arrest if he didn’t back off. His eyes didn’t linger long as he roamed the crowd, trying to single out the dark curls from the masses.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._ Was that the bass of the music’s tempo rapidly increasing, or blood in his ears as his heart picked up pace in horror? Chandler couldn’t tell until he weaved through the entire room without a sign of his doe-eyed D.C.

Flashes of body parts in the Thames and pale skin against silver metal slabs shot through Chandler’s mind in quick succession.

_The killer’s only gone after women; Emerson is fine!_ He told himself.

_‘Only focused on women that we know of.’_ Mansell’s voice resounded. Was he right? Did their killer favour both women and men?

_RELAX. If –_ and only if _– Kent’s gone with our villain, you’re not going to find him if you are having a wobble!_

When did Chandler’s inner voice start to sound like Miles?

And why couldn’t he get his brain to calm down?

By the time the D.I. circled back to his team on the brink of hyperventilation, he had scratched the skin on the back of his hand red, and he silently cursed Mansell for jinxing the entire situation before it had even started, first verbally back in the incident room, and then physically by picking a fight on the club floor.

‘Where’s Kent?’ Chandler forewent any rationalities. The three detectives before Chandler scanned the club almost exactly the same way he had minutes prior.

‘I can’t see him,’ Mansell said quietly, guilt already settled heavy in his gut. He, too, seemed to be worried for the missing young man.

‘He was just through there,’ Norroy commented, her finger pointing to the half of the room Chandler had started in. Kent’s disgruntled expression, his nose wrinkled and mouth in a tiny sneer swallowed Chandler’s thoughts at the sight of the other D.I., the young D.C.’s agitation at the woman’s presence hitting Chandler like a sledgehammer. Guilt ebbed its way into Chandler’s frame as he realised that the time spent in the Hooded Crow hadn’t been the first time during this case that he had been neglecting Kent, and the young man's worries didn’t seem so irrational after all. At the mere thought of Kent feeling neglected, at the thought that Joe would leave the man for the blonde D.I., Chandler felt the disgust at himself rise in his throat. Why did he have to realise things when it was too late?

It wasn’t too late! It couldn’t be!

The Detective Inspector led the parade of detectives through the curtain partition, long legs striding to the indecipherably coloured couch where Kent and his companion no longer sat, though their bottle and glass that had been clutched in their hands respectively were discarded on the table in front.

‘There was… He—Kent, and a man—’ The D.I. could feel the weighty pressure of an anxiety attack welling in his chest. He struggled to push the words out of his throat as tears blurred his already distorted vision.

_Kent’s gone, Kent’s gone, Kent’sgoneKent’sgoneKent’sgone—_

Chandler whirled around to fix Mansell with a harsh glare.

‘This is your fault!’ He snapped, breaths laboured and chest heaving. ‘You jinxed it! This team’s already cursed enough without you claiming Kent fit the profile or—or starting fights with random men in clubs! If we weren’t having to pull you from situations like this, then maybe someone would have seen Kent leave!’

Mansell looked horrified at the accusation and even Riley, who had cuffed Mansell around the ear in retribution, looked distraught at the Detective Inspector until pity took over.

‘Sir—’ Her tone was both a warning and sympathetic.

Chandler squeezed his eyes shut. He said, ‘No… Mansell, I’m sorry. Not only was that highly unprofessional, it was completely wrong. I’m—I’m sorry.’

He turned away before any of them could see the tears that Chandler couldn’t keep from trailing streams down his cheeks, and he missed the way Riley and Mansell exchanged questioning glances.

‘He was talking to an attractive man; blond hair, blue shirt.’ Chandler pointed to the dark material of the furniture before him. ‘Right there.’

Riley’s and Mansell’s heads swivelled as they searched for the man who fit Chandler’s description while Norroy moved to ask the surrounding people for any sign of the curly-haired man. A few minutes later, the group reconvened next to Chandler, whose breathing had become short and fast. Any hope that remained in his heart was shattered at the two D.C.s solemn shakes of the head. Norroy’s heels clicked as she, fast-paced, returned with her findings.

‘No one’s said they’ve seen him,’ She let out in a breath. Chandler wanted to scream in agony, frustration, fear. The Thames’ sloshing water and the slicing opening of a bin liner was louder in his mind than the thumping of the club’s speakers.

He opted for, ‘Find him!’ instead.

With the search inside the club proving fruitless, Norroy suggested that the Whitechapel team move outside the Hooded Crow. While Mansell and Riley moved to the wooden doors immediately, Chandler’s feet refused to follow. His eyes stared at the half-empty glass, turmoil swirling as he watched the bubbles slowly fizz to the top of the liquid and pop. Disappearing.

Chandler was certain that if Norroy hadn’t grasped him by the elbow and gently, but firmly, guided him towards the exit, he would have remained there the remainder of the night. It didn’t stop Chandler’s thoughts from straying, though:

The languid kisses and small talk that the two men had exchanged over breakfast That Day (and it was always capitalised in Chandler’s mind) in his flat seemed like a lifetime away; Chandler continued to scratch the back of his hand in concentrated, forceful strokes as something, anything, to distract him before he drowned in the gut-wrenching anxiety and soul-crushing fear that enveloped him the same way the biting wind of the evening swooped in and settled in the depths of his bones, relentless. The skin continued to brighten red, turning the same shade as Kent’s face had when, That Morning, Chandler’s taken a suggestive turn (a surprise to both men) when

he had stared at the man’s outrageous curly bedhead, and the bright-eyed D.C. had scrunched up his nose in bashful delight. The back of the hand that clasped a spoon covered Kent’s mouth to prevent any food flying as he tried not to choke on a laugh, the sleeves of Kent’s pyjama top – which was in actual fact, _his_ – practically swallowing Kent’s slender fingers. He had then done what the D.I. had wished he wouldn’t: Kent looked down to hide his grin like, even though he adored the attention, the praise, he didn’t think he deserved it. After his heart had clenched at thought, Chandler had looked on with what only could be described as heart-eyes. It was then he _knew_. It was then that he was certain on where he stood.

He was in love with Emerson Kent.

_And you may never get the chance to tell him._

Chandler didn’t allow his subconscious taunts to continue.

He would get the chance to tell Emerson. He _would_. Pulling his phone from the depths of his pocket, Chandler immediately dialled a Whitechapel Police number, barking an order down it before the voice on the other end could get a word out.

‘This is D.I. Chandler. I want you to track the phone of one D.C. Kent immediately.’ The onslaught of the realisation had sobered Chandler up pretty quickly, and he wasted no time in playing the Detective Inspector that Anderson had left him as.

Moments stretched into minutes as all Chandler could hear down the line was the frantic clicking of keyboard keys followed by pauses as a computer screen loaded.

‘It says that Detective Constable Kent’s phone is along Scully Street at this moment.’

‘Scully Street?’ Chandler clarified. The hope in his heart resurged. Scully Street was close by. Tilting the device away from his mouth, Chandler shouted his next commands to the three detectives stood in anticipation. ‘This way. Scully Street, _come on_!’ He didn’t wait to see if his team followed, instead taking off into a sprint down the darkened, cobbled streets of Whitechapel. Footfalls echoed in the void, the drumming of feet so loud in Chandler’s ear that he almost missed the update that was passed to him.

‘Stubbings Street!’

Chandler could have sworn he felt his speed increase marginally, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest as it worked to pump blood around Chandler’s body and keep the fears at bay long enough for Kent to be found.

Pausing at the crossroads that presented themselves, the next road was given to the D.I. He repeated ‘Costermongers’, though he wasn’t sure where the road was. He didn’t recognise the name; Mansell did.

‘Down here!’ The man cried, slapping Chandler’s upper arm as he raced past the taller man. Chandler faulted for a split second before he easily caught up to the D.C. A clock chimed somewhere in the night, echoing like a knell, an obvious reminder to the length of time that Kent had been missing, an obvious reminder to the death that perpetually trailed after the Whitechapel team. Chandler repeated the word ‘No’ over and over, a nonsensical prayer to a god he wasn’t sure he believed in.

Mansell still led the charge, ‘It’s down this way’ tossed over his shoulder. It occurred to Chandler in that instant that he wasn’t the only one who had a deep, terrible fear for the dark-haired D.C. The older Detective Constable darted around a corner, disappearing from Chandler’s view, only to reappear as Chandler caught up effortlessly. Mansell and the others paused outside the door, warily watching the glass 78 etched above it. They were probably following protocol, Chandler reasoned, probably waiting for back up to arrive (Norroy was on her phone, and that’s who Chandler assumed the other D.I. was in the process of contacting) but Chandler was willing to suffer the consequences of his actions as he made no movement to slow – if anything his running quickened. Sharp pain shuddered through his shoulder blade and to the base of his neck as Chandler burst through the apartment’s wooden front door, a shouted ‘Police!’ the first thing to escape his lips.

He barely spared a glance at the lobby when a man upon the stairs caught his attention as he sauntered into view. Dark eyeliner surrounded gibing eyes, and the blue shirt Chandler remembered was loose against the man’s frame. He poked his tongue against his cheek and leaned against the wall, mocking.

Blind, irrefutable rage exploded within Chandler, and not one of the detectives could stop him as he hurled himself at the man in the blue shirt. Grasping his arm firmly, Chandler twisted it behind the man’s back, shoving him against the wall. Barely a grunt was heard from the other man. Chandler shoved him against the wall again, one hand raising to harshly press against the man’s face.

‘Where. Is. He?’ Chandler demanded before turning his head to his team.

‘Sir!’ Mansell called out, stupefied at the D.I.’s actions. He attempted to pull Chandler away, but the older man yanked his arm out the D.C.’s grip, instead turning rage-fuelled eyes on his team. The two D.C.s he had been by the older man’s side for a long time now could not remember the last time – if at all – that rage of the same calibre had been seen on their devoted D.I., and the two of them were not sure whether they should be concerned or not.

‘Find Kent!’ Three short nods were his response as they raced past the grappling men to reach the top floor, quickly and efficiently spreading out to cover more ground.

‘What have you done to him?’ Chandler pressed harder. ‘Come on, tell me! Where is Kent?’ He heard the sound of feet thumping against carpet above him, Mansell’s worried cry of Riley’s name, more shuffling, and Riley’s maternal instincts kicking in as she repeatedly called ‘Emerson’. Norroy was repeating the address to someone. Fear welled and Chandler wanted nothing more than to run upstairs, see Emerson for himself, but as the man continued to grapple in his hold, Chandler felt his anger resurge and then he wanted nothing more than to pummel the man in his grasp, regardless of the consequences.

Sudden motion behind him had Chandler swinging is elbow backwards. Solid caught it deftly, and Mansell appeared in Chandler’s vision. ‘Whoa, sir! It’s just me. Kent’s upstairs, either passed out or… poisoned.’ No one could deny the growl that escaped the man’s throat at Mansell’s words. Looking at his boss knowingly, Mansell gripped their suspect just as tightly, before he sent Chandler up the stairs with a jerk of the head. ‘Why don’t you head on up? I’ll take our man off you.’ Chandler gave the man a genuine smile.

With a grateful expression, Chandler moved past Mansell, smiling as the D.C. took over the job of harshly pressing their suspect against the wall (his grins and chuckles seemingly angering Mansell, too, as he gave him a sharp shove to get him to quieten), and took the stairs two at a time.

What would have been a sensual, provocative scene to their suspect greeted Chandler as a passionless, decorous trepidation. Silk cascaded over the doorway, a thin separation between the living space and the make-shift bedroom. Illuminated by the lamp, Kent's prone form stole Chandler's attentiveness. The young man looked terribly pale dressed in his black _Colour of Bone_ band tee, and even paler against the deep dark brown sheets of the queen-sized bed. Nausea surged through Chandler's body, the sight of Kent on the bed and the knowledge of the man on the stairs elicited sickening ideas that made Chandler want to do more than throw their suspect against the wall. He remained instead, attributing the red haze in his vision to the ominous glow emitted from the pink lamp atop the bedside table.

'Sir?’

Riley’s call seemed faraway but had the Detective Inspector blinking back to the rest of the world, and he noticed that the blonde-haired woman was crouched by Kent’s side, gently pushing curls from his forehead with motherly tendencies. When she saw Chandler no longer looked murderous, she shuffled aside, her position immediately filled by the D.I., who didn’t care that he was knelt on the floor.

‘Is the ambulance on its way?’ He stammered, eyes never straying from the lifeless D.C. in front of him. His hands rested against the brown sheets, flexing the material between them anxiously.

‘They’re a few minutes out.’ Norroy was the one responded. ‘SOCO too.’

Pressing his lips together in a thin line, Chandler forced back tears and shuffled forward to clasp Kent’s hands between his own. They were cold, Chandler hated that feeling. Kent was always so warm, so alive, and to feel the man beneath his palms the same way one might find a corpse, it made Chandler feel sick. Pulling Kent’s hands forward and pressing them to his mouth, murmuring unheard words.

Riley watched on silently, suppressing a grin. _Those men won me twenty quid,_ she allowed herself to think with glee.

»» ««

Chandler hated how long Kent had been motionless before him, but by the time sirens wailed in the distance, Riley and Norroy had moved from the room to begin their sweep of the house, and Kent’s head lulled to the right. The D.I. shot up and shuffled forward even further so that he could look at his D.C. with elated relief.

‘Jo?’ The mumble was virtually unintelligible, but it didn’t prevent Chandler’s ears from picking apart the syllable that was followed by heart-breaking whimpers. His hand found its way into Kent’s locks, the older man softly shushed, whispering back words of comfort.

‘Shh, Em, darling, it’s okay,’ Chandler cooed. ‘It’s okay, you’re safe. I’m here.’ His free hand clasped Kent’s nearest one; he pressed the knuckles to his lips and held them there. Kent mumbled Jo’s name once more, eyes barely flickered open as he let his thoughts slip out freely in his stupor.

‘‘m sorry ‘m not her.’ Chandler made out, brow crinkled in confusion. ‘Know you like her. Maybe you pre—prefer her. Could better your career. Jus’—jus’ wanted you to know… I love you.’ He paused. ‘‘m sorry.’

The Detective Inspector felt his heart split in two at Kent’s confession. Evidently, Kent was still insecure, vulnerable in what Chandler had thought was a working relationship. Was it really what Kent thought? He still doubted them, after everything?

_Did you give him a reason not to?_

It didn’t take long for the small gestures, the absent-minded comments, or the pedestal that Chandler hadn’t hesitated to place the female D.I., to convince Chandler that he, in fact, hadn’t given Kent any sign to dissuade his fears.

‘Oh, Em.’ Was all he managed to say in return, not bothered to hide the tears that slid unabashedly down his face. ‘I love you, too. You do know that, don’t you?’

_Does he?_

Kent stopped responding; his movements stilled. Chandler’s heart plummeted. ‘Em? Emerson? Can you hear me?’

‘Can I get in there, please?’ The question from the paramedic was more of a command, and Joe found himself moving away even though he desperately didn’t want to. He walked a few paces away, prepared to join the search through the house, when he found words falling from his lips before he knew what he was saying.

‘He’s…’ _So very important to me_. ‘Police. Look after him.’

»» ««

Mansell was tugging on a pair of latex gloves while Norroy was sifting through the clay pots that lined the coffee table when Chandler walked in, his own pair of gloves already in place. If any of the other detectives in the room saw his furtive glances back to the bedroom, then they didn’t comment on it. With the living area covered, Chandler migrated to the bathroom to join Riley in her search. The blonde D.C. was crouched by the end of the bathtub, pulling the lids off of candles and peering into pots, nothing of interest jumping out as she returned the lids just as quickly as she had taken them off. Chandler’s own search began in the black cupboards, rifling through the tubs, containers, and packaging that overflowed in hopes of finding something that would link the suspect out in the hall to the bodies washing up in the Thames.

‘So…’ Riley began, unsure, after a few minutes passed in silence; she barely contained the smile that Chandler heard rather than saw. Out of the corner of her eye, Riley saw Chandler stiffen momentarily before he continued to root through the bathroom drawers. ‘You and Kent…?’

Chandler closed his eyes. It was bound to come out eventually, though he wished it were under different circumstances.

'What about us?’ Chandler played coy. Riley tutted, the clink of a pot against ceramic resounding in the stiflingly quiet, small room. She hummed, letting the silence draw out, and Chandler knew what she was doing, but it didn’t stop him from falling into her trap, blurting out what she wanted to hear.

'We're together.’ Chandler turned red, glad his back was to the D.C., who let out a bark of laughter.

'I think we’ve established that, Sir,' Riley said. ‘How long?’

‘It’s coming up to our second month,’ softly said Chandler.

Riley smiled. ‘He’s gonna be fine, Sir.’

‘I know.' He was thankful Riley did not ask anything more. Chandler didn’t want to do this without Kent, acting like he wasn’t with them anymore.

He pulled open the drawer in front of him, rooting through the discarded pill bottles and boxes that had him wanting to reorganise them neatly, but the urge was washed away as his fingers brushed against a glass bottle shoved down the back. Carefully pulling it out, Chandler twisted the child-lock cap and dumped a few small, blue pills into his open palm.

‘Look at this,' called Chandler, and Riley moved to stand by his side, the remnants of their previous conversation gone. ‘They’re not aspirin—Look at the markings.’ Bile clawed its way up Chandler’s throat as the knowledge of what the pills were entered his mind. The red haze returned full force.

‘What are they?’ Riley's innocuous question stopped Chandler from leaving the bathroom and doing something rash.

'Rohypnol,' He grit out. Riley looked between the pills and Chandler’s face, confused.

‘But our suspect's a good-looking guy,' Riley stated, 'so why would he need roofies to get a date home?’

Riley was no longer helping prevent Chandler’s ever-growing anger and the subsequent, irreversible actions that would follow.

'Because—’

‘Sir, you should probably see this!’

And, apparently, neither was Mansell. Sparing a glance to the blonde D.C. at his side, Chandler waltzed past her to meet Mansell in the living room. He was situated in front of the suspect’s computer. Norroy was next to the man, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the screen. Her wig was gone.

Chandler placed himself in the space next to the female D.I., his eyes trailed over the Apple Computer; the screen depicted the scene that had greeted Chandler when he had first walked into the flat. Only this time, the image was encompassed by a green overlay, suggesting that a night vision camera was in use. The Detective Inspector watched in agitated horror as their suspect clambered from the end of the dark bed to cover Kent’s with his own. Two kisses were placed against the pale man's neck before Chandler snapped at Mansell to turn it off.

‘Sir?’

‘I said, “Turn. It. Off.”’ Chandler snarled, stepping away from the computer to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. Silence befell the four detectives as the quiet clicks of the computer alerted the older man that Mansell had complied with Chandler’s command.

‘It, uhm, it didn’t go further than that, sir,' Mansell tried as a way of comfort. ‘He stops because he heard you burst through the door downstairs.’

No verbal reply was given, instead a sharp nod of the head as Chandler attempted to regulate his breathing.

‘Is that all he’s got on his computer?’ Chandler returned to his duty as a police officer after he collected his thoughts. Mansell shook his head, fingers tapped against the wooden desk in a tuneless rhythm.

‘He’s got a bunch of this movies stored on here.’

'Right, well, let’s take the computer back to the station, and we’ll finish up here. Let’s find out if any of these other... _movies_ are the body pieces Doctor Llewellyn has.’ Chandler’s nose crinkled at the use of Mansell's descriptor.

‘Uhm, Detective Inspector Chandler?’ A new voice called. Said man turned to see the paramedic who had asked him to move earlier.

‘Yes?’ Chandler – and the others around him – could not miss the way his voice caught when he uttered the singular syllable.

'We're taking Mr Kent down to the hospital now. Is there anyone who is going to be coming with him?’

_Me._ The D.I. so desperately wanted to say, but at the present point in time he wasn’t Kent’s partner, but rather his boss, and no higher up – hell, no _uniform_ – would overlook it if Chandler was seen clambering into the ambulance after his junior officer rather than taking control of the crime scene.

Joseph Chandler found that he didn’t care.

'Go.’ Norroy was the one who broke the silence. ‘I think I’m quite capable of managing a crime scene.’

A quick pleading glance to the two D.C.s revealed they thought the same thing, Chandler mouthed a “thank you” and hurried out after the paramedic and into the back of the ambulance.

»» ««

‘Do you need a blanket? Something to eat, or drink?’ Jo fretted as he lowered Emerson on to his couch hours after the man had been released from the hospital. Their coats were hung up properly by the door, Jo having helped Emerson out of the black material like he was made of glass, fragile. The older man had then slowly but carefully manoeuvred the pair of them to the couch, hands immediately skimming across Emerson’s body, but never touching.

‘I’m fine,’ Emerson smiled lazily, ‘Seriously, Jo. I’m fine. You don’t have to worry so much.’ Jo’s fingers worked their way to Emerson’s, entwining them together and letting their hands drop to rest on the older man’s lap. The two curled around each other, Emerson's legs tucked up under him while his head rested on Jo’s shoulder. There was a blissful quietude to the flat, the moment shared between them calmly intimate. Some time after Jo and Emerson had fallen into the domestic position, the former freed a hand to card it through the dark locks next to him, holding the young man's head securely against his shoulder like he feared Emerson would disappear on him again.

Secretly, Emerson did enjoy Jo’s worrying, because it washed away the doubts and insecurities that Mina Norroy had brought with her for the long haul, and it made him feel cherished. _Loved_.

And just like that, Emerson’s heart stopped as his drug-infused gloom confession hit him full-force. Licking his lips nervously, Emerson pulled his hands free so that he could angle his body towards Jo, who noticed the rigidness in his partner's frame.

‘Do you… do you want to talk about it?’ Jo asked, uncertain as to what Emerson was feeling. The younger man pulled himself from Jo’s hold – and Jo desperately wanted to reach out and hold him again, but he waited, patiently – and angled his body so that he was half facing Jo, and half not.

‘I remember,’ Emerson began with, because he wasn’t sure where else he should start. ‘I remember going to his flat – I don’t remember leaving the club – and I remember being half-conscious on his bed.’ A beat. A nervous lick of his lips. ‘I remember what I told you.’ Jo’s breath hitched, uncomfortably loud in the quiet of the flat. ‘I… want to apologise. The rohypnol I was under just...’ Emerson gesticulated vaguely in front of him. ‘We’ve only been together almost two months, and I don’t want to scare you off, but after everything we’ve been through since you first came to Whitechapel, after Norroy, it just… It just came out.’ Taking a shuddering breath, Emerson met the older man’s gaze with words he didn’t mean. ‘It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. You don’t have to say it back.’

Jo was silent for a while, and it made Emerson nervous. ‘Did you mean it?’ Jo’s voice shouldn’t be that quiet, that defeated. Emerson’s throat went dry and he found himself wishing he had asked for a glass of water.

‘I—’ Emerson took a breath. _It was now or never._ ‘I love you, Jo. Honestly, I do. In fact, I think I’ve loved you since you saved Skip’s life, but every time I tried to tell you, the words got stuck. I love you so much it scares me, and I need to be honest with you.

‘I’ve been difficult this past few days— no, Jo, I know I have – but you have to understand: I have wanted you for the longest time and then you asked me out on a date… I couldn’t believe you wanted me back, Jo. That you liked me. But I am also aware that I am not the person you should be with if you ever want to escape Whitechapel, to stop being a Detective Inspector. Not only am I your subordinate, but I am a man, and that can ruin your entire future.

‘I hope, wish, anything, that you enjoy life as it is now, with all of us in Whitechapel, but I know you, Jo. You are a man driven by ambition; being a Detective Inspector was never something you wanted, and I would only hold you back from moving onwards and upwards. With D.I. Norroy’s arrival, something Mansell said, something about you two being perfect for each other, made me think that he could be right, and then Miles said you looked happier recently. If you wanted to progress, you could never stay with me. Not really. It was unfair of me to think so, but I thought you had realised it, too, and were finding less of a burden in D.I. Norroy than you would me, but I don’t want you to. And I’m sorry if that means you’re stuck as a Detective Inspector for the rest of your career, for I cannot bear to watch you leave this behind.

I love you. And I’m sorry.’

Emerson took a breath. It was all Joe needed. Warmth flooded Emerson’s cheek and he found himself leaning into the touch. Shining topaz met conflicted hazel as Joe held Emerson’s uncertain gaze.

‘I don’t know if you heard me.’ It was his turn. ‘But I love you, too. I told you such when you were on _his_ bed. You have no idea how badly I wanted to— _want_ to—hurt him.’ Jo inched forward. ‘I’m sorry I neglected you recently; I guess it was just nice to have someone of the same rank who understood what it was like. The pressure I am under. I’m sorry I didn’t come to you first, but I, myself, didn’t want to be a burden to you, not with more of my peculiarities. I already demand so much of you, Emerson, that I didn’t want to ruin it with my anger and animosity.

For the first time in my life, I have a sense of normality. In this, what I have with you, I don’t feel the need to always be in control. I get to come home to you almost every day, and the thought of that alone makes me the happiest man in Whitechapel – I don’t want to bring the death and destruction here, so I took it to D.I. Norroy. I should have told you from the start.

You are right in the fact that being a D.I. was never something I originally planned when I joined the police force, but that doesn’t make it a bad thing. Surprisingly, I’ve begun to like it here in Whitechapel, with you, and if remaining a Detective Inspector means I get to keep you in my life, then… I do think I’m too bothered by it.’

With nothing left for either of them to say, Emerson threw himself against the other man, arms winding around his middle as he tugged Jo close. Jo’s hand worked its way back to Emerson’s hair, returning to the almost-protective hold it had been earlier.

‘Miles was right, you know,’ Jo murmured into Emerson’s curls after an eon had passed between them. Emerson hummed a response, pulling back to look Jo in the face. ‘I have been happier recently.’ He waited and watched as Emerson quirked an eyebrow. ‘It was the last time you slept over—remember when your godforsaken Vespa gave out?’ Jo grinned at the playful, admonishing slap Emerson gave his arm. ‘We were having breakfast, you were in my pyjamas, and _your_ _bedhead_ —’ Jo cut himself off with a laugh, gesturing with a hand around his own head to create the picture of the untamed curls. Emerson flushed and pushed Jo gently. ‘The image alone made me realise, Emerson. I do love you, and that sight is what I want to see more of. What I want to wake up to everyday, rather that the sporadic days you stay over.’

‘You don’t mean...’

‘What I’m asking is for you to move in with me.’

Words died in Emerson’s throat, though they didn’t stop the beautiful grin from spreading across his face and allowing Jo to release the breath he had been holding in anticipation.

‘I know it’s very soon,’ Jo admitted lowly, ‘and we could be rushing things, but even if I only realised it not too long ago, I’ve loved you for a while now, Emerson, and I want to spend as much of the rest of my life with you as I can. Tonight has proven to me that with our line of work, you never know what might happen.’

‘Everyone will know,’ Emerson stated seriously, trying to determine if this was what Jo truly wanted. Jo just pressed his lips together and shook his head, hiding his amusement.

'It seems they already do, Em,' Jo said. ‘It doesn’t change the fact that I want you in my life for as long as you’ll have me.’

‘You’re serious?’ It seemed Emerson still wanted clarification. Jo nodded vehemently.

'Do you still doubt me?’

No verbal reply was given as Emerson leaned across the space, hands cradling the sides of Jo’s face, to press his lips to Jo’s in a tender kiss that quickly took a different turn until Jo pushed him back enough to be able to talk.

'So, is that a yes?’ Was spoken against Emerson's lips. The young man kissed Jo again, and again, and again, before responding.

‘Absolutely.’

Nothing could have prevented the million-watt smile that beamed from Joe, nor the way he pressed Emerson into the mattress and hovered over him, lips trailing from the young man's lips, to his jaw, and down his neck.

‘I love you.’


End file.
